The Disappeared (4 page)

Whatever the
reason, Josh didn’t merely dislike small towns ... he despised them. And now,
as he entered Bishop, he felt the same old creeping discomfort; the same
suspicion that all small towns fostered an unfocused antagonism towards him.
Josh knew that someone like himself – with his shoulder-length blond hair and
well-travelled clothes – tended to stand out in a place like this. In his
present situation, the last thing Joshua wanted was to stand out.

 He walked
slowly studying the eastern glow. It was early. He didn’t carry a watch but he
guessed it was just after six. The way he liked it. Better to avoid any
unnecessary contact; keep it to a minimum. You never knew. So far he had done a
good job of staying low-key ... undercover. But that was only because he was
careful – and extremely paranoid.

What are
you going to do now, Josh.

Damn, it was
quiet. Too quiet...

Josh thought
about his experience earlier that morning. The same sensations came flooding
back to him. The deathly quiet that hung in the air like a heavy velvet
curtain. The strange taste. The insects – the damned insects! And the empty
trees. What the hell was that about? What was going on here? Joshua stopped and
stretched expansively trying to ease the sense of foreboding that clung to him.
He inhaled deeply. He allowed loose thoughts to float through his mind as he
tried to transcend his sense of dread. Josh reckoned he had travelled almost
600km in the last few days. At least. He had specifically taken a roundabout route
trying to throw the bloodhounds off the scent. So to speak.

What are you
going to do now, Josh?

It was now
about seven days since his escape.

The Great
Escape. From Westville.

Whaddaya
think of that, Davey?

Seven days
since his escape. And they must know that he would head towards the big
metropolis of Johannesburg. Towards his brother. Surely. Joshua suspected they
would be searching the highways and other major routes heading for Johannesburg
– a co-ordinated dragnet; maybe a couple of roadblocks. Whatever the case,
Willems wasn’t going to let him get away. Not this time.

A vivid image
of the Warden of Westville Reformatory popped into Josh’s mind. The sinewy
scrawny man with the long neck and the ridiculously small head. Old Warden
Willy Wanker Willems. He who always smelt like mothballs. Who sported permanent
sunburn on his giraffe-like neck. The unpleasant little man who strutted around
like Napoleon Bonaparte. Yet who always appeared much more spiteful and vindictive
than imperious.

‘There are two
rules here at Westville, Kingsley,’ Willems had said to Josh on his second day
at the maximum-security facility for wayward boys. They were sitting in his
bland office with its view of the fenced-off Westville courtyard. Josh was
sitting stiffly in one of two straight-backed G.I. chairs while the beanstalk
warden, in his ill-fitting green uniform, was seated on the edge of his large
desk. Josh sat awkwardly, feeling crowded by Willems who was stretched out on
the desk like a bizarre (and duck ugly) parody of a supermodel; thin long legs
languidly crossed. ‘Rule One: whatever I say is law.’ The warden smiled pleased
with himself.

No ways;
not this old speech.
Joshua could see what was coming from a mile away.
This
is like a B-grade movie starring Michael damn Ironside or that Blonde Karate chick.

‘Rule Two:
when in doubt ...’ Willems paused for maximum effect. ‘Refer to Rule One.’ He laughed
rapaciously. To Josh it sounded like a sick mongoose that was choking on a
rattlesnake – a rattlesnake with a bad case of flatulence. ‘Aw come on, Kingsley,’
Willems said slapping Josh playfully on the leg. ‘Relax. I’m just joking.’ If
the tap on Joshua’s leg was supposed to make him loosen up it had exactly the
opposite effect. He tensed up like a drawn bow in the hands of an experienced
Khoi-San
hunter. Willems leaned forward. ‘You know, I really like you ... Joshua.’ Josh
realised the revolting forty-something man was trying to appear friendly and approachable.
What he got instead was insect-like predator closing in on his prey. ‘I can see
you’re a good ... boy. A good boy who’s just taken a few wrong turns in life.
Am I right ... Josh?’ Joshua stiffened. The implied familiarity in the use of his
name revolted him. He didn’t respond. ‘You see ... Josh, every now and then we
get a special kind of boy in here. A
very
special kind of boy with real
... potential, shall we say. Like you Josh.’ Warden Willems smiled at Joshua in
a twisted snarl that showed uneven yellow teeth. He leaned closer. Josh felt
like worms were crawling under his skin. There was the distinctive smell of
peppermints on his breath and something unpleasant underneath – tooth decay? ‘Boys
with a
talent
like yours shouldn’t be allowed to fall through the ...
cracks, hey Josh? No, no, no. I really think, Josh my boy, that you would
benefit greatly from some private instruction.’ Joshua didn’t dare look but he
could swear, out of the corner of his eye, he could see the crotch section of
Willems’ green pants rise on top of an erection. ‘Let’s not beat about the
bush, Josh. I’d like to take you under my ... wing. You understand?’ Willems
smiled encouragingly. ‘I mean, let’s be honest, you can make life here at
Westville very pleasant for yourself, indeed. All you have to do,’ he said
putting his hand on Joshua’s leg, ‘is co-operate. Huh, boy, what do you say?’

Up until this
point Joshua had been staring straight ahead – wishing ... hoping ... praying
the interview would just end. But when he felt the old pervert’s greasy hand on
his legs. Well. That was it. Joshua turned his head towards the warden who was
panting lightly. He smiled sweetly. As momma had taught her son to do. It was
the sweet smile of a country boy who had
never
...
ever
tasted
the raw side of life. Willems’s face lit up like a pinball machine.

Without dropping
his corn-dog smile even slightly, Joshua violently slammed his hand in between
Willems’ legs. Aiming for a handful of balls.

A handful was
exactly what he got.

Josh squeezed
with all his might. The warden inhaled sharply. The smile vanished instantly.
And his face become very ashen indeed. He squealed like a little girl as his
eyes bulged from their sockets.

Joshua spoke
with measured viciousness. ‘If you ever touch me again ... boy ... I will wrap
your little pencil dick around your neck ... and shove it up your dirty little
ass. You got me?’ Joshua gave an extra squeeze to emphasise his words. The
warden squealed like a little girl at a pyjama party. But he didn’t respond.
His entire being was focused on a little wrinkly pouch of skin between his legs,
currently in the grip of a very strong young man.

‘I said, have
you got me?’

Heinrich Willems
realised the excruciating pain, which was preventing him from drawing oxygen
into his lungs, was only going to cease once he acknowledged the young roughneck
in front of him. Willems nodded. At first it was imperceptible. But as the pain
in his scrotum grew, the nodding became more and more furious. Even epileptic.
Josh released his iron hold. The warden fell from the desk and lay sprawling on
the floor wheezing and choking. Josh stood up and walked towards the door.

‘You’ve just
booked yourself a truck-load of shit, you little cunt,’ Willems said through spluttering
coughs.

Josh paused
and felt the warden’s eyes on his back but he didn’t turn. ‘I’m used to it.’ He
walked out.

On his first
day he had made an enemy of the local bully. On his second he had made an enemy
of the warden – the most powerful man in Westville. Although Josh felt justified,
there was the uncomfortable realisation that he had made a bad situation much MUCH
 worse.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

Man, what’s
up with this place?

So far Josh
was pleased with his progress. Seven days on the road. And he had done well to
survive this long and this far. Once he reached the big city he would feel safer.
Once he reached Johannesburg, he could disappear, maybe go underground for a
while. He would have to wait before contacting Davey. They would be watching
his place night and day. He would have to give it some time. In any case, Davey
wouldn’t approve of what he had done. No doubt. Josh wondered if his brother
would ever speak to him again. Plenty of time to sort that out though. Plenty
of time to get a new life. Lots. For now it was about survival and just getting
there.

As Joshua
entered Bishop, he wondered if he wasn’t making a big mistake about this town.
He had no idea how accurate his misgivings were.

He stopped at
the edge of the first row of buildings and lit a Camel. As he puffed on the cigarette,
he looked around himself trying to take in as much detail as possible. The
first noticeable thing about Bishop was its postcard-like picturesque nature.
The sidewalks were neat orderly and clean. On both sides of Bishop’s main road,
neatly trimmed mophead trees were planted in regular intervals; their thin
limbs dreadlocked with leaves. To Joshua they looked like a row of Rastafari
soldiers. Further down, two roads intersected the main street forming three main
blocks on either side of it that formed – Joshua guessed – the town’s central
business district.

If a town
could have a colour theme, then bishop had one. It seemed many of the buildings
along its main street shared a kind of two-tone, maroon and olive-green colour scheme.
In addition, there was also a very distinctive architectural style. To Joshua
it looked retro, even vintage. He could imagine a windbag using words like
neo-colonial revisionist.

The quaint appearance
of the town should have been charming and pleasant. It should have been
agreeable and delightful to refined senses that Joshua had never bothered to
develop. Instead he found it eerie and unsettling. A part of it was because it
was completely deserted. It looked like the abandoned playroom of a wealthy
spoilt child who had died. A creepy memorial maintained by grieving parents; a
place composed of a transposed cheerfulness that was both tragic and vulgar. Bishop
was like a children’s playground that had become a cemetery.

Joshua slowed
his pace. And looked for any signs of life. But there were none. There was only
the empty town. Joshua stood at the end of the deserted street smoking his
cigarette.

The main
street was lined with the usual kind of businesses. On his left, he saw at
least two national banks, a post office, a Copy Shop & Internet Cafe and at
least two Arts and Crafts stores. On his right immediately at the entrance of
Bishop was a large
Spar
Supermarket. Further down the road he saw a hair
salon and what looked like a rather quaint restaurant. A gift shop an old
English-style pub and ...

Joshua slowed.

It was the
kind of building you saw in a thousand little towns. Although it conformed to
the general look of Bishop, there was no mistaking it; especially the blue
light suspended outside.

It was a police
station.

Joshua could
see no movement. There were no police cars outside. If it was anything like the
police stations in small towns everywhere, there would be little activity.
Hopefully. Especially this time of day. He carried on walking.

Just be chill
he thought. And keep it casual.

He walked
until he reached the intersection immediately before the cop shop, then crossed
the road. As he walked across the tarred road, an image of a young Sylvester
Stallone flashed through his mind. It was a subdued and solitary Sly. Long
unkempt hair was bouncing on his shoulder; he was wearing old army greens. Sly was
passing through a little town, just
damn-well
minding his own business. Until
he had a run-in with the local redneck cops. Corrupt and sadistic, they just
couldn’t leave a brother alone. Man! Did they get their asses kicked. Damn!
Josh loved that movie.

As he passed
the station, Josh cast a surreptitious look at the stark white building. One
window had its blinds pulled up all the way to the top. It gave Josh a direct
view into the cop shop. There was no-one inside.
No-one at all
. Although
he didn’t complain, Joshua thought it strange. A few more steps and the police
station was behind him. Josh relaxed a little

All the time
he carried on looking for anything that might serve as Bishop’s transit stop. After
leaving the riverbank, Joshua had come to an important decision. He had finally
decided to halt the tiresome hitching and take a bus to Johannesburg. Now if he
could only find the local bus stop. From experience, Josh knew that in small
towns like this, a diner or some type of small business premise usually doubled
up as the bus transit point. So it was pointless searching for an actual bus
station; instead he looked for the logos of the main bus companies:
Greyhound,
Translux ...
anything
.

In the
distance he saw a filling station. A
Shell
garage. Maybe
that
was
it. At the very least he could ask the petrol attendant. He unslung the duffel
bag from his shoulder and searched inside for his brush
.

That’s when he
realised someone was behind him.

Minki
carefully laid out her dress on the edge of her bed. It was such a pretty dress
– her most favourite
favourite
dress in the whole world. As always, it
reminded her of her mother. The mother she would only ever know through a
picture on her dressing table.

The photograph
featured a woman that was still young – in her early twenties. It had the fuzzy
texture of something from the early eighties; the medium-length hair that
curled inwards and the plain white dress with its long sleeves and hemline that
sat just above the knee confirmed the era.